Castaway (Third Time's A Charm)
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: There are worse times to be stuck at than 2574. Probably.


**Castaway (Third Time's A Charm)**  
by Sandrine Shaw

"Why am I always the one getting stranded somewhere?" Ray complains as he ducks through the hidden entryway into the dark, dingy quarters he and Mick are hiding out at while they're waiting for the Waverider to pick them up again.

There are worse times to be stuck at than 2574. Probably. Realistically, the 1930s were... pretty awful. And there's a reason why the early medieval period is referred to as the Dark Ages. It's not like the Cretaceous was all that much fun, either.

Still, if Ray had to choose an era to spend a few extra weeks, he'd not voluntarily pick the 26th century. On the plus side: running water, electricity, advanced technology, no grumpy T-Rex, and no actual Nazis. On the other hand: an evil robotic overlord and civil uprising. Ray doesn't understand why every future they travel to has to be a dystopian hellhole. Wasn't this the whole reason why they hunted down and killed Vandal Savage to begin with, to prevent things from ever getting this bad?

"Dunno. Dumb luck, I guess," Mick's gruff voice comes from his left, much closer than Ray expected, startling him.

It takes a moment for his heartbeat to calm down again. Mick tends to be boisterous and rowdy, it's easy to forget that he can be stealthy if he means to be. It's why he blends in better with the resistance fighters than Ray does, leaving Ray to make supply runs.

He offers a smile. "Yeah, sure, I know that. It was a rhetorical question. I wasn't actually expecting an answer."

Mick frowns. "Then what's the point of askin'?"

Without waiting for a response, he snatches the bag with food from Ray's unresisting hands, rummaging through the contents. He makes a disgusted sound at the assortment of fruits and vegetables he throws aside before his face lights up, and Ray knows he's found the bakery products. They're synthesized and taste blander than even the stuff Gideon makes, but Mick likes them anyway. Well, as much as Mick ever likes anything that's not either going up in flames or at least 80 proof.

Ray watches Mick rip the packaging open and wolf down two of the small cake-like balls, making the kind of noises that still make Ray blush, even after three weeks of getting used to them. It's something he would only admit under torture, but those blissful, positively lewd sounds are half the reason Ray risks his life every few days to find food that he knows Mick appreciates rather than just grabbing the first things with any kind of nutritional value he can get his hands on.

He turns away and forces himself not to stare. It's as bad as back in 1958, playing house with Kendra, except _worse_ , because even if Kendra didn't want to marry him, he knows his feelings for her weren't entirely unrequited. Mick is... Mick. Half the time, Ray isn't convinced that Mick even thinks they're friends. Sure, they shared a few moments, saved each other's lives a couple of times – but more often than not, Mick barely seems to tolerate him.

His conflicted feelings must be written all over his face, because Mick is giving him an odd look. "You okay, Haircut?"

"Sure, yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You ain't lookin' okay."

Ray squirms under Mick's suspicious stare.

Sometimes, he really wishes that Mick was the unperceptive brute the others occasionally think he is. It makes him wonder, not for the first time, how much of it is calculated, an act to deliberately make people underestimate him.

"I'm good, really. No need to worry about me. Not that I think you're worried, just —" He bites his tongue and drops his head back against the wall with a painful thud. "It's been twenty-three days. Why haven't they picked us up yet?"

"That another rest— ripo— whatever, one of those questions where you don't want an answer?"

Ray smiles tightly. "Um, no, I'd actually like answers for that one, if you happen to have any."

"Huh. Well. I guess something came up. Maybe Blondie's off butting heads with the hot Time Bureau chick again. Or the Waverider got damaged when they went through that time storm. Or Red's got another emergency back at Central that needs handlin'. Or perhaps they're all dead." He casually pops the last of the cake balls into his mouth, and this time not even his indecent show of enjoyment can break through Ray's gloomy mood.

"Thanks, Mick, that's... a comforting thought."

"You didn't say you wanted comforting. I'd have saved ya one of those cake thingies."

He looks into the empty bag as if he expects it to magically fill up again. When it predictably doesn't, he shrugs and crumples it in his large, scarred hands, and Ray can't look away. He's oddly endeared by the idea that Mick would offer him cake to comfort him, even if baked goods generally make him sick.

"Well, it's the thought that counts," he says, but the smile he levels at Mick is hollow, and the cheer in his voice is fake, and there's panic trying to claw its way out of his chest like an angry Dominator tearing through everything in its path. "What do we do if they're not coming? Oh my God, what if they really are dead, or if the Time Bureau took away the Waverider again and we're stuck here? What if we can never go home again?"

The tightness beneath his ribcage increases with every shaky breath he takes, and it feels like there's not enough air in his lungs. His vision narrows and blurs, black fog at the edges moving in, and he doesn't realize he's swaying until the weight of Mick's hands settles on his shoulders, steadying and sure.

"Haircut. Breathe."

Mick's face materializes in front of him, that kind of annoyance written all over his expression that Ray has figured out by now masks concern rather than murderous rage. His hands grip Ray's shoulders tighter and he pushes him backwards against the wall, and it's only when he feels the solid bricks against his back holding him up that Ray realizes how precarious his attempts to stop his legs from giving out under him were.

"If we're stuck, we're stuck." Mick shrugs again. "No point in worryin' yourself crazy 'bout it. We help those fools overthrow Robo King. Get some more cake. Could be worse."

He makes it sound so easy, and perhaps it could be. Not easy, maybe, but bearable. If only —

"Promise you won't leave."

The frown furrowing Mick's forehead isn't the one he gets when he's pissed off; there's genuine confusion in the way he eyes Ray, and when exactly did Ray become an expert in the nuances of Mick's facial expressions?

"Where'm I supposed to go? What're you talkin' about now, Haircut?"

"If they don't come back for us and we have to stay and make a life here. You'll stick around, right?"

It sounds bad, spoken out loud like that, all his abandonment issues laid bare, as well as his need to keep Mick in his life, even if it's only as the grumpy not-quite-friend who's perpetually annoyed with him.

As if on cue, Mick's frown deepens. "This ain't some cozy home like you made with your bird lady, Haircut. You don't want me around, not 'less something needs burnin' down. 'm not the domestic kinda guy."

There's something strange in the gruff tone when he brings up Kendra, but it's the _you don't want me around_ Ray gets stuck at. When Mick lets go of his shoulders and moves to step away, Ray reacts on instinct, reaching out and grabbing the collar of Mick's jacket, clenching his fist around the coarse material and firmly stopping Mick's retreat.

Mick looks ready to throw a punch, and Ray figures that if he's getting hit, he might as well go all in. When he gives Mick's jacket a tug, Mick's surprised enough to let himself be pulled forward, right back into Ray's space.

Ray leans in and presses their lips together.

The kiss is artless and clumsy. Their noses are in the way, Ray's lips are dry and chapped, and he doesn't dare to slip Mick some tongue. His neck protests because the angle's all wrong. But it's still the best thing that happened to him in the past three weeks since the Waverider touched down in 2574.

It feels like they're standing like that for minutes, Ray's hand fisted in Mick's jacket, their bodies so close that he can feel the rise and fall of Mick's chest against his own, the two of them breathing the same air. It's probably only seconds, though, until Mick cranes his neck back and gives Ray a blank stare. But he's not putting much distance between them, and his fist isn't connecting with Ray's face, which Ray counts as a win.

"The hell are you doin'?"

There's confusion in his tone, but also something else, something low and dangerous, and Ray figures he has about thirty seconds to explain himself before Mick storms off.

"I'm glad it's you who's here with me," he says, fumbling for the right words. He wishes he were better at this. Numbers and figures, formulas, science... that's easy. Telling the guy he's been carrying a torch for, for an embarrassingly long time now without sounding like a blubbering idiot? Not easy. "Even if we're stuck here. Especially then. I don't want to have some kind of cozy home with Kendra. I mean, I did, but I tried that, and it didn't work out. But you and I, we're partners, right?"

He finally lets go of Mick's jacket, dropping his arm.

Mick's still staring at him, like he's still trying to process what Ray just told him, tension written in every line of his body – the clenched fists, the frown on his face, the ramrod-straight stance. Ray has to fight down the urge to reach out again, unsure if his touch would be welcomed. He doesn't realize that he's holding his breath until Mick finally relaxes and, in turn, Ray starts to ease as well.

"You're an idiot," Mick mutters.

Before Ray has a chance to protest, Mick's hand clamps around the back of his neck, pulling him forward into another kiss. It's rough and a little angry. But Mick's tongue is in his mouth, hot and possessive and insistent, and Ray's not gonna complain about clashing teeth or beard burn as long as Mick keeps kissing him like he owns him, pressing close like he wants to merge their bodies into one. One of his legs wedges between Ray's, knee pressing against Ray's groin until Ray's once again unbalanced, unsteady on his feet in a much more pleasurable way than before.

They're both breathing heavily when they break apart for air. Ray tries to hold back the stupid wide grin, he really does, but it's a lost battle.

Still, he has to make sure they're on the same page. "That means you're not leaving, right?"

"'course I'm not leaving." Mick rolls his eyes at him, and the 'idiot' is loud and clear even when he doesn't say it. "Who knows what you'd get up to on your own. Find another creepy alien baby to adopt, or piss off a T-Rex again. Can't leave you well enough alone, can I?"

Ray's pretty sure he'd be doing okay on his own, apart from the crushing loneliness and the broken heart. I mean, okay, he might get himself killed, but it's not like that's entirely unlikely even when they're together. But Mick knows that as well as he does, so he doesn't bother to protest, and the grin won't fade from his face.

It turns more gentle and soft, though, when Mick says, "Besides, 's like you said. We're partners."

He moves in for another kiss that's no less heated than the one before, his large, warm hand cradling Ray's cheek, and Ray is almost a little resentful when the door is flung open with a bang and Sara and Nate burst in with what has to be the universe's most ill-timed rescue mission.

End.


End file.
